Page 32 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“Keep moving,” he says, his voice sharp and devoid of sympathy.

I stop in the middle of the hallway, my arms crossing over my chest. “Why are you doing this?” I demand, my voice shaking but louder now.

Andrei sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like I’m an inconvenience. “It’s not my call,” he replies coolly.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” I snap. “You work for him, fine, but you’re still a person. Do you really not care about what he’s doing?”

His eyes harden, his lips pressing into a thin line. “No,” he says flatly. “I don’t care.”

The bluntness of his response takes the air from my lungs.

“You’re serious,” I whisper, disbelief coloring my tone. “You don’t care that he’s forcing me into this, that I have no choice?”

Andrei shrugs, his posture relaxed but his gaze cold. “Why would I care? Makar’s my boss. My loyalty is to him, not you. Whatever happens to you is none of my concern.”

“You’re a monster, just like him,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His smirk is faint, humorless. “Think what you want, girl. It doesn’t change anything. This is how it is.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, leaving me reeling as we continue toward my room. When we reach the door, Andrei opens it and steps aside, motioning for me to enter.

“Get some rest,” he says, his tone edged with mockery. “You’ll need it.”

“For what?” I ask bitterly, though I already know the answer.

“The wedding,” he replies, his smirk deepening. “Tomorrow.”

The door closes behind me, the lock clicking into place with finality. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands as the weight of everything crashes down on me.

I’m trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.

***

The next morning, I wake to the sound of footsteps and low voices outside the door. It swings open, and two women enter, their faces unfamiliar but professional.

“Miss Fox,” one of them says, her tone brisk. “We’re here to prepare you for the ceremony.”

“What?” I blink at her, still groggy.

“For the wedding,” she clarifies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m not getting married,” I say firmly, though my voice lacks conviction.

The second woman exchanges a glance with the first before stepping forward. “You are,” she says, her voice gentler but no less certain. “It’s already been decided.”

I stand, backing away from them as panic grips me. “I don’t want this. You can’t just—”

“We’re only here to help,” the first woman interrupts, her tone neutral. “This will go much smoother if you cooperate.”

I stare at them, my breath coming in short gasps. The walls of the room feel like they’re closing in, the reality of my situation pressing down on me with unbearable weight.

They guide me—no, force me—into the adjoining bathroom, where an array of toiletries and luxurious bath products are laid out. The room smells of lavender and citrus, scents that would normally feel soothing but now make my stomach churn.

I don’t fight as they draw a bath, the warm water swirling with fragrant oils. My limbs feel heavy, my mind numb as they help me undress and lower me into the tub.

The women work efficiently, washing and scrubbing as though I’m some kind of doll to be polished and prepared. I let them, my body limp and unresponsive, my thoughts a haze of anger and dread.

When they’re done, they wrap me in a thick towel and lead me back into the bedroom. A white dress is laid out on the bed, simple but elegant, the fabric shimmering faintly in the light.

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